You Can Lead The Pony to Gravy, But Someone Has to Teach Him to Dish It Out

The Pony had to work at a biscuits-and-gravy fundraiser this morning. You know what that means! Val and her mom strapped on the old feedbag for biscuits and gravy.

Let the record show that The Pony knows less about these fundraisers he's involved with than the Secret Service knows about White House intruders. I could barely get his work hours out of him in order to determine whether he could still make his bowling league. The sum total of his knowledge was: "Nine to eleven, four dollars, three biscuits." The wild card was whether sausage was a component of the gravy. He said he had not heard sausage mentioned. He also divulged, at the last minute before we pulled into the parking lot, that he didn't know where the gravy was coming from, but that his sponsor bought the biscuits at Walmart, and the kids would be baking them in the oven in the school kitchen.

Let the record further show that nary a hairnet, cap, or plastic glove was seen. Not that Val is concerned about such sanitary measures. After all, on The Amazing Race, people in India eat food from street vendors that has been sitting around all day in the sun with flies crawling over it. And drink beverages from re-used plastic 7-Up bottles. So I was not concerned about contracting dysentery from a student fundraiser. Even though just before reporting for duty, I made The Pony pick up a piece of clear tape that had been stuck to the floor of my classroom for three days, and was beginning to turn black from the foot traffic.

"Mom. You know I'm going to the kitchen now to serve biscuits and gravy. Do you really think that's a good idea?"

"Yes. Because I won't have to bend over. Now get the Germ-X and wash your hands."

My mom met us there in my room. She's kind of an odd duck. Not that you'd ever believe something like that, of course. We had called her on the way, because the thought hit me that my mom could not eat THREE biscuits with gravy, and she hates to waste anything. So I told her to bring a container for leftovers. In she walked, after KNOCKING on my classroom door, opening it a crack (heh, heh, I said CRACK) and asking, "Is this door locked?" Then she put her re-used Walmart sack with a plastic container on the first desk, and proceeded to the back corner by my mini-fridge, opposite from my desk, and catty-corner from The Pony's desk, to sit with her face toward the wall. Odd. Duck.

The record grows longer, because it must also show that I was reading the tabloids so I could give them to Mom when she left, and The Pony was fiddling with his phone to kill time until his shift.

"Mom. You don't have to sit in the corner."

"Well, I just wanted to leave you alone until we get our biscuits and gravy."

"Oh, I need to get out my four dollars. I hate to use my ones, but they may not have change."

"I was going to buy your biscuits and gravy."

"You don't have to do that." I was willing to give up my Four-Dollar Daughtership for the day, seeing as how Mom only donated THREE DOLLARS to the same club for their Alzheimer's walk last weekend. If the elderly and addled aren't worth more than three dollars, it's hard to believe the Val's appetite is worth four.

The Pony left to start work. His soft whiskered nose was out of joint because I "made him" ask if we had to pay for the concurrent volleyball tournament in order to enter for the breakfast. The answer was no, which was good news for Mom's pocketbook. Even so, as we went up the hall and turned into the cafeteria, the secretary working the ticket table hollered to ask if we were going to watch volleyball. Times must be tough. Gone are the days the ticket-taker never even made my family pay when we went to watch games.

I walked up to the table with the money box and a disinterested senior texting obliviously. The Pony stood by the entrance to the kitchen. "You get a juice or a white milk or a chocolate milk with your plate." The big cooler inside had the top flipped back like a piano key lid.

"Well, I'm going to check the dates. I work here, you know." Insider knowledge is a good thing. I tossed my four dollars to the texter and went inside. I was lucky to find a chocolate milk half-pint with Oct 15 stamped into the top. Then the senior dishing up the biscuits and gravy asked me if I was half or full.

"What?" Seriously. What kind of question was that? In fact, I told him I didn't understand, and he had to repeat it twice. Finally, he got his point across.

"Do you want a half-order or a full-order?"

"Well, I paid four dollars..."

"Oh. So you're a full."

I looked at the sponsor. "I though he was asking me if I was an optimist or a pessimist." I took my plate, and added some pepper. Then the sponsor asked if I wanted jelly. JELLY! What kind of person eats jelly with biscuits and gravy? I took two.

In came my mom. She said she was a half-order.

"What? You paid four dollars!"

"No. I just paid two dollars. When I walked up to the table, the boy said, 'I bet you want a half-order.'" Which kind of makes me think they assumed, 'Here's Mrs. Thevictorian, that cow, who will polish off a full order.'

Let that increasingly obese record show that they were correct. Mom and I took our plates back to my room. There she further informed me that she had asked the texter if I already paid, because SHE had wanted to buy my breakfast, and The Pony assured her, "You don't have to pay for Mom to eat."

The food was just right, my compliments to the chefs and the dipper, who had EXACTLY the right ratio of gravy to biscuits, with just enough bare edge sticking out to apply two tiny packets of strawberry jelly. The milk, however. left a bit to be desired, being absolutely tasteless, yet with an aftertaste. I took two sips to give it a chance, then chucked the rest out my classroom window. Not the waxy brown carton, of course, just the no-fat milk. Seems like only several years ago, the last time I ate a school lunch, that we had the pleasure of tasty 1% chocolate milk. Ah. The good ol' days.

Mom had taken a half of a half-pint of real orange juice from concentrate. Being a retired teacher herself, she pried that spout open, pried it farther, and swirled that beverage around before trying a sip.

"What are you doing?"

"Well, I want to get a look at it first." Funny how we insiders are so suspicious.

As of this moment, neither Mom nor I have suffered any gastrointestinal upset. The fundraiser was declared a success. The Pony got to eat his fill of leftovers.

The Pony announced that he received a bit of a promotion with 30 minutes left of the breakfast. "I got to move into the kitchen instead of standing by the wall telling people about the drinks. My job was to stir the gravy so it didn't get hard, and to dip up the plates when people came in. At first, two of our own workers told me I didn't put on enough gravy, so I started putting on what I thought it should be, and half again. That seemed to work out."

I think The Pony might have a little bit of my mom in him.